Our eyes meet, and that’s all it takes. I lean in, slow enough to let her stop me. She doesn’t.
The kiss is soft—hesitant at first, then deeper, the taste of cider and smoke and something I’ve wanted since the moment I met her.
When we finally pull apart, she stays close, forehead resting against mine.
“I shouldn’t,” she whispers. “This can’t be anything more.”
“I know.” My voice is rough. “Friends, right?”
“Right.”
But neither of us moves. The fire pops, the boys snore softly nearby, and I realize friendship might be the hardest job I’ve ever taken.
FIVE
LANIE
I have kissed exactly two men since Huck was born.
One was a disastrous attempt at “getting back out there” arranged by well-meaning moms from school. The other one is sitting three feet away from me, firelight shining in his eyes.
I can still taste the smoke and sugar on my lips.
“Okay, monsters,” I whisper, pulling the blanket up over Huck’s shoulders where he and TJ have cocooned themselves against the hay bales. “Final story and then it’s lights out.”
“Tell the pumpkin pirate one,” Huck mumbles, already sliding toward sleep.
I do.
I keep my voice low and ridiculous, and by the time the pumpkin pirate finds the treasure (friendship; it’s always friendship), both boys are out cold, sticky hands open and defenseless against the October chill.
The fire has softened to embers. Crickets have taken over the soundtrack of the farm. Wind chimes from the snack shack tick faintly in the distance.
I tuck a beanie over Huck’s hair and ease back. Van stands too, quietly gathering the s’mores sticks and the crumpled marshmallow bag. When I bend to lift the tray of mugs, he’s already there, taking it from me with that easy competence that does bad things to my resolve.
“Dishes?” he asks.
“Dishes,” I reply, and we carry everything to the outdoor sink behind the shack. Warm water chases chocolate spirals down porcelain. Neither of us talks for a minute. The quiet turns my thoughts up to full volume.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
It was a mistake.
It didn’t feel like a mistake.
“Thanks,” I say, rinsing the last mug. “For today. For… everything.”
His shoulder bumps mine. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be here.”
I dry my hands on a towel, buying time. The barn is dark; the pumpkin patch beyond is a scatter of moonlit domes. Somewhere out by the road, Dylan’s windmill creaks once, like a sleepy hinge.
“You’re good with them,” I say, nodding toward the lump of sleeping boys across the yard. “With TJ. With Huck.”
“Lucky, mostly.” He half-smiles. “TJ makes it easy.”
“I know the feeling.” And I do. When things are hard, Huck still makes them easier. That’s the motherhood magic no one tells you about in the brochures.
We pack away the fire ring and the extra wood, a practiced dance though it’s our first time doing it together. Chase appears out of the darkness with a crate of bottled water and a grin he barely hides.
